Madwomen
by madefrommagic
Summary: Dark, Sweenett. Slight comedy. "She must be mad, it was the only rational explanation for her behaviour, he'd just held a razor at her throat for heavens sake! Now she was looking at him with such affection he was beginning to wonder if he'd threatened her life at all."


_(Edited 22/07/2016. First published 29/5/2015)_

A/N **:** This is my first Sweeney Todd Fanfic, well first I've posted. I never mustered up enough courage to post one as I felt I would have portrayed the characters horribly wrong. But I let my friend read it, and after _a lot_ of convincing on her behalf I finally decided to post it. Reviews would be appreciated, I don't mind _constructive_ criticism. :)

 **Disclaimer:** Sadly I don't own It, or Mrs. Lovett's meat pies, which I'm not as upset about. 

* * *

The dreadful sound of that painfully familiar, shrill voice shattered his sweet silence. Sweeney's fingers curled above his razor, it was so tempting. Her mere presence caused anger to flare through his veins as she burst into the room muttering about some _"wretched beggar"_. His stone set mouth almost grimaced, betraying his humanity with a twitch.

He clenched his jaw, his limbs so tense it was a wonder he could ever stand. It took all the strength in his body not to rise and pounce on the unsuspecting women, to let his precious friend slice the porcelain skin of her throat whilst he watched her vibrant rubies spill and silence her forever.

She would be surprised, but at the same time, she wouldn't. He hardly even breathed in her presence, and seeing that look of shocked horror painted across her pretty face as he held the cool blade against her throat, oh now _that_ would be _priceless._ He almost grinned.

That rare spark of excitement, was murdered by one plain, stalk truth. A truth which never failed to enrage him immensely, for Sweeney Todd could not simply kill Mrs. Lovett as carelessly as the poor costumers he polished off daily without second thought, not as long as he wished for the evidence of that... er... controversial business opportunity to be disposed of practically. More specifically, in an eminently practical and appropriate fashion which his dear Mrs. Lovett always provided him flawlessly without fail.

Oh, but how he longed to see her bleed, that beautiful crimson seeping across her pale lifeless, _silent_ form. Red against white. A picnic blanket for the dead. No doubt an imagine he would treasure gleefully. Maybe it was worth sacrificing the practicality in exchange for his peace.

Murder being his only comfort, yet, he was not able to use it against his irritating accomplice, perhaps even the kind it was created for. This only frustrated him more as the said women continued prattling on about god knows what.

Why wouldn't the damn women ever leave him alone? She was constantly bustling about him, moving things that didn't need moving, bringing flowers (he really had no comment for that one), and just always making a huge fuss about things that simply didn't matter in a world where Judge Turpin lived on and his Lucy did not.

He became _vaguely_ aware of a small, netted hand waving in his face. Because that isn't annoying.

"Mr. T? Hello? Yer listenin' to me?" _No, surprisingly Mrs. Lovett, I am not._

 _Doesn't the bloody women know? Asking the same question daily doesn't increase the chances of reply, only the amount of pathetic desperation for even the slightest of attention. The worlds most annoying landlord thinks she's deprived of attention, how ironic._

"Of course." He replied with the same dead monotone he used every day in response. Might as well keep to routine.

Sweeney thought it was ridiculous, a pointless show, how she would insist on helping him, forcing her grimy fingers and existence into his life. Whether it be bringing food he would never eat or cleaning his red splotched shirts, which he admits, not to her, no, he slightly appreciates. People would actually start to suspect something if he walked around London in blood sodden clothes, and he may sometimes take the odd bite, as he didn't really want to starve to death when there was so much he needed to do.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Lovett peered sceptically at the barber, searching his onyx eyes. They seemed just as dead as the rest of him as he stared into nothingness. No doubt lost in thoughts of Joanna and Lucy and that foul Judge Turpin. _Poor soul, always the prey to 'is demons._

She sighed deeply and moved away from the brooding barber, setting herself busy with the task of ridding the layer of crimson paint that coated the room. She'd learnt to be unmoved by the terrible deeds she did daily, hacking off limbs, sorting through messy insides, meat is just meat after all. Yet she is still slightly disturbed, walking into such a horrific scene, and Mr. T being the centre of it, himself covered in the gruesome liquid. It was like walking into a world on the outside of her own. It felt different, unsettling. The air unnaturally cold, the kind that went right through to your bones and made you squirm.

And he'd just sit there in his chair, the picture of hell, a demon polishing his razor as if it was the only thing effected by the mess. The only thing that mattered. It was quite the sight, she'll admit it even manages to make it into her nightmares. Her thrashing heart would wake her, and she would shiver as the poison of fear and lust consumed her.

Nightmares happened frequently for Mrs. Lovett, and Mr. Todd. The innocence of sleep died along with their own. His cries haunted her, tears prickling in her own eyes, and the shivering, wide eyed ghost would rush up the dingy staircase in the cold dead night and cling to him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear, praying that maybe just once he'd notice the reassurance, notice _her_ , and appreciate it. Her. His embrace itself would save her from the shattered, frightening darkness of her own fraught mind. But ghosts can't be seen.

Sweeney Todd's black, cracked, heart cared of nothing and no-one. His range and passion was fuelled by the desire to kill the Judge, to avenge his beloved Lucy, his pretty Johanna and her yellow hair. Even after he'd killed Turpin, even after Johanna was his, _if_ she was his, Mrs. Lovett doubted he would ever spare her a fleeting glance let alone a second one. She was nothing and no-one.

Mrs. Lovett knew this more than anything, it swirled in the mess of her head, and it pained her, it pained her to hear the soft, _almost_ loving, cries of _"Lucy"_ as the barber slept restlessly, especially when it was _her_ who soothed him from the nightmares.

Yet Mr. Todd still cried for his Lucy, no matter how many times she'd whispered in response, _hissed_ when she just couldn't take it, that his Lucy would never return. That killing the man would not bring back her back. But she was there, and she wasn't going anywhere, never.

 _"Lucyyy!"_ He'd cry out again and the blood in her veins would boil.

 _Scrub, scrubscrub, scrubscrubscrub_ squeaked the cloth against the floor of the Parlour. Sweeney slowly lifted his head to peer at the Baker, a brow raised.

A peculiar personality swap seem to occur then, as Mrs. Lovett didn't notice at all as she continued the ferocious scrubbing, knuckles white and teeth gritted.

Lucy Barker is a madwomen. She does nothing other than crawl through the dreary streets of London like the wrench she has become. Mrs. Lovett loathed this women more than anything, she hated how she could still be the object of Mr. Todd's affection when it was in fact _her_ that cared for him day and night, and _not_ the infamous _Lucy Barker._

A deep line had etched its self into her forehead, her bitter thoughts blurring reality as she scrubbed the floor vigorously, the cloth she was clutching now sodden in deep crimson blood.

She'd pronounced her dead, to her husband, and the twinge of guilt she felt was effortlessly blotted out. She might as well be dead. This was probably best for everyone. That's what Mrs. Lovett constantly told herself, convinced some may say, though she would never use that word no matter how true. 'O _w would he react ter see her in such a dreadful, pitiful state any'ow?_

According to Mrs. Lovett, it was by far safer to let him believe she was gone, she might as well be in the level of insanity she had reached. He had already lost his marbles when that sailor mentioned Joanna, a perfectly sane and perfect child.

God knew what would happen if someone where to point him in the direction of his Lucy.

Lucy Barker, she spat the name, _"Alms"_ she begged, pathetic. Leaving a precious child for an easy escape, suicide when she had so much to live for. It was weak and selfish, Mrs. Lovett was ashamed to know such a filthy human. Never curled up and died, never Kept locked up, hovering outside her shop, daring to try to give it all away, ruin everything she and her Mr. T had. Luckily no one paid attention to a madwomen. The yellow hair Mrs. Lovett had once envied was nothing but mattered grey now, her beauty had faded with her sanity, and good riddance to her.

But he still called her name, he still spoke of her as if she was an Angel sent from god himself. How could he want an Angel when he could be the devil himself, and she his wife.

"Mrs. Lovett!" A silken voice growled. The poor Baker was given quite a fright as the yell jolted her from her thoughts, causing her to almost fall face first into the dark ruby puddle before her.

Fist over her racing heart, Mrs. Lovett glanced up as two hard eyes glared back at her. At _her_. If it was difficult to believe he'd spoken in the first place, it was even harder to convince herself she hadn't drifted off into another day dream. Mind you, this was a little more realistic than half the stuff she'd idly dreamed up whilst she baked.

"What's the matter love?" Mrs Lovett asked her Barber, a weak smile painted across her pale lips.

Mr. Todd scowled, as per usual, dropping his cold eyes to the floor in front of her.

"I think it's rather clean now!" He snapped.

She was dazed, lost in clouded confusion and spite still lingering somewhere within, the shuddering pounds of her heart assaulting her chest. The Baker followed his stare, understanding on sight just what the grumbling Barber was referring too.

That particular spot was quite clean, in fact, it had been scrubbed so violently the panel was not so much a panel but a dent. Blushing ferociously, Mrs. Lovett let out a crackled, slightly dark, nervous laugh. She twisted her fingers around the sodden cloth tightly, as if that alone would hold her together.

"Oh good riddance! Typical me ey Mr. T? Gettin' carried away wiv me tidyin'. It'll take me all evenin' ter get them stains out of yer shirt love." Another trembling, lifeless laugh escaped her lips as she avoided his burning eyes. Despite her laughter, she knew Mr. Todd was far from amused, he hated his 'peace' interrupted, and she was probably lucky she didn't have a razor pressed against her neck at that very moment.

"Have you quite finished my dear?" Mr. Todd said, his tone smooth and sharp, she suppressed a shiver and nodded her head, gazing at him through her lashes. The Baker quickly gathered up her skirts and lifted herself off the ground, quite the opposite of graceful in her haste. She was an expert at reading Mr. T's tones, and knew quite well he wanted her to leave, or die which was sadly much more accurate, so he could be alone. As he always was.

She screwed up her nose as she trenched through the crimson pool obscuring her path, cursing aloud as she realised her clutches had failed to hold the skirt up by a centimetre. Mr. Todd might not mind his shirts, but she wasn't willing to sacrifice her dress to the blood that seeped through fabric fast and seemed reluctant to fade.

"Something the matter pet?" He asked, syllables mocking and _dripping_ with poison. She was quite the sailor when it came to swearing.

Mrs. Lovett began to wonder if his method of inevitably killing her was simply by giving her a heart attack.

What our tortured baker didn't know was that our demons murderous mind had been focused on killing her from the moment she set foot in the room, and such annoyance can only be handled for so long before the urge to murder ruthlessly kicks in, and it so happened that now Sweeney felt would be the _appropriate_ time to quench that thirst. If he let himself.

"Oh, well." She began, as if she actually thought he was interested, at all. "It's just me dress, I were 'opin' I wouldn't 'ave ter get it dirty that's all." Mrs. Lovett confessed smiling brightly, though still trembling slightly despite how confident she appeared. She knew he could see behind it, because of course he scared her, he _terrified_ her. Though, he only saw the fear, he didn't realise how much of a jumble her nerves got into when he was around, and how she found it impossible to breathe in a perfectly ventilated room.

The blood-thirst brewing within him was determined to crush his urge to subside. His beloved razor felt colder and heavier in his hand as he smirked and locked his eyes with Mrs. Lovett's round flint-coloured ones. She was so vulnerable, so oblivious and so _bloody irritating_. What was she thinking, what was she doing, why was her existence such a problem for him? The way she'd pulled her hair from her neck in a ridiculous, frizzed do, only made it much more appetising for a razors slice. He could almost see the rubies swirling beneath her smooth skin, begging to be set free.

His eyes bored into hers. A ranging fire washed through her veins and harboured in the pit of her stomach, the pulses of heat wrecking her insides and scolding her heart. She found herself unable to move, as if his gaze alone was pinning her to the spot.

"Now my pet, fear not." Sweeney grinned, promptly rising from his chair. If only she'd known sooner, she could've used their distance as an advantage to flee while she could, but Mrs. Lovett was struggling to comprehend anything in that moment. Her chest clenched with tremendous fear and that white hot flame of desire that refused to give up and die already.

He stalked her and grabbed her from behind then, an arm across her collar bone as he yanked her into him. Mrs. Lovett gasped, and her heart pounded far too violently for her lungs to catch up. She felt his grin widen against her cheek, his cool flesh pressed hard against hers. Mrs. Lovett's skin only burned where ever his touch strayed.

He gripped her tighter, sharp nails digging into the soft sphere of her shoulder, and Sweeney's glee only escalated as she winched, resisting the urge to scream and moan and the same time. This was it, this was the end and she had never been more certain of anything but this. Why couldn't she find the will to hate him yet?!

"To be honest, You probably won't be needing that dress any more Mrs. Lovett." Sweeney growled in her ear, and she mentally kicked herself for shivering in _pleasure._ She knew it wasn't quite as lovely as she wished, but Mrs. Lovett preferred believing the latter to the former, and so she cursed her stupid heart.

Then came the dreaded glint she was hoping, hoping by some miracle of fate, he wouldn't pull out. Her wide eyes shifted and sure enough, in his hand he held the beauty, the deadly razor, inches from her throat. It seemed he had no woes about using it, especially when he pressed the cold metal against her skin without hesitation.

"Now, Mr. T." She gasped, all confidence plummeting to the ground as her words shook. "Think 'bout what yer doin' 'ere love.." Her breath was ragged now, her eyes screwed shut. The razor only required a small amount of pressure for it to slip through her delicate throat, that would cease any more of her words all together.

"I assure you _pet_." He spat, leaning into her neck his nose skimming it, grinning again when she quivered in him arms. "I know exactly what I'm doing." She could feel the blade breaking through her skin ever so gently. Letting out a small whimper she pushed her head back into his shoulder, squirming to get away from the blade. Sweeney only held her tighter, tight enough to suffocate deeming the razor useless. Speak of the devil, it was back to torture her neck again.

"Come on _my pet_ , we'll have none of that!" He mocked her with the nickname, breathing the words against her neck, and she was certain he _wanted_ her to shiver this time.

He could've slit her throat in a second, but he found a joy in torturing her, seeing just what would make her squirm and what would turn her into syrup. Sweeney concluded Mrs. Lovett deserved to be tortured rather than be granted the quick and easy release of death. It wasn't as if she tried particularly hard to escape anyway, one would think she didn't value her life.

Mrs. Lovetts own emotions where awry, a toxic cocktail that made her head swirl and made it impossible to think clearly. She knew she was terrified, anyone in their right mind would be. Mrs. Lovett was sure she'd lost her right mind the moment Sweeney Todd walked into her pie shop that gloomy night. Among that, there was the familiar heat pooling within her, and she hated it but she bathed in it nether the less, the haze of lust ruining her logical actions.

He yanked her into him again, the blade scraping against her throat, taking a layer of flesh with it. It burned, and he took great admiration of the rubies it brought on the tip of his razor, lifting the silver and gazing at the droplet as if it was truly a gleaming ruby.

Then it happen fast. Sweeney stumbled, distracted by his friends discovery and her weight surprising him in that midst. Mrs. Lovett, already experiencing many many emotions, naturally panicked further, her eyes open and wide again. Small hands scrambled and grabbed his arm, gripped _hard_ , and threw him off balance completely, throwing them backwards onto the red stained floor.

She only saw a slither of silver hurling through the air _away_ from her, a great relief for the poor women, clattering somewhere in the far corner. After everything she'd been through, Mrs. Lovett was most astounded that she just saved her own life with nothing but good ole' reflexes. And tremendous, blinding fear.

A soft groan came from beneath her. She sat up immediately, and stared down at a pale—paler than usual— Mr. T sprawled across the floor beneath her. He groaned once again, touching his head gently and winching, and so Mrs. Lovett, a peculiar character indeed, threw all anger, fear, defence — All perfectly normal human reactions— out the window, and sprang into overbearing care mode almost instantly. She tentatively knelled beside him and peered into his face with nothing but concern and _affection._ Sweeney noted this with a grimace, furrowing his eyebrows in a deep scowl as he tried to understand just what on earth was going through the women's head.

"Oh Love! Are you ok?" A hand went to his forehead automatically, the other stroking his dark locks gently and cradling the back of his head. Alarms went off in his head, his eyes widening. He gave her a brutal glare, swatting her hands away and sitting up to glower at her harder. He ignored the sharp pain that shot through his skull, clutching his fists tightly in an attempt suppress the feeling.

"I **don't** need _you_!" He hissed, and the baker to shrank towards the floor, more hurt than fear passing her face. That was another thing that infuriated him deeply, why was she never _completely_ terrified of him? There was always something _else_ , he just couldn't figure it out, and he hated it. Whatever it was. He hated not having control, not knowing. He hated how he never fully understood anything she did, he hated how she treated him so nicely when he was nothing but foul to her.

He hated how she, of all people, was an unsolvable, swirling, mystery to him. He didn't want her to have anything that made her even slightly interesting, he had other things to focus on, important things.

When she danced in the room all perky and bright and strange, questions surrounding her, questions that made his brain ache and he refused to notice her. She didn't even react to his cold stares or the sound of his razors as he flicked them open and closed, open and closed. She treated it like an empty threat, usually just placing a tray on the side and shuffling over to him, resting her chin on the arm of his chair and attempting conversation. Conversation, with _him._

Sweeney Todd was no empty threat.

She was madwomen, he decided, squinting into her soft brown eyes and what a nice warm brown they where compared to his black lifeless ones— a thought he ferociously drowned just as quickly as it had submerged, and opted for the glare response.

She _must_ be mad, it was the only rational explanation for her behaviour, he'd just held a razor at her throat for heavens sake! Now she was looking at him with such affection he was beginning to wonder if he'd threatened her life at all.

"God dammit women, _what the hell is wrong with you!_ " Sweeney roared as she tried to touch him for the third time. Mrs. Lovett disregarded his lash out cmpletely and simply frowned, touching his head gently when she was thought he wouldn't notice. He winched at the touch, whimpering slightly, pain throbbing in his skull, and he pushed her hand away again. That distant look returned to his empty eyes and he stubbornly, point blank, refused to acknowledge her, as per usual.

"You 'ad a bump ter yer 'ead on that fall love." The hand touched his hair, stroking through it again, pulling it from his eyes. He continued to ignored her and it seemed that little fiasco never happened. But it did, he still had her blood running down his fingers and she still had a cut across her neck. It was only small, but it was deep enough for the rubies to peak out and drip down her chest.

She grasped his hands then. She assumed Mr. Todd had lost himself to the haunting thoughts of Joanna and Lucy again when he didn't protest or try to kill her, instead following the bakers lead in a daze as she pulled him up and lead him through the door.

He idly watched red ringlets bounce against her neck, possibly the liveliest things in the entire building. Red against white. No wonder in wasn't hard to imagine her drenched in crimson, with hair that looked like it had already had a dip in it. He was still positive she was mad, touching a man who'd _just_ tried to slit her throat. Any sane person would be running and never looking back. Why wasn't she screaming a him, why wasn't she scared that he'd try again, push her against a wall and strangle her. He could so easily do it.

But Mrs. Lovett stayed, like she always did, (annoyingly, as Sweeney would put it), by his side. She spared a glance at him, warm eyes full of concern, tugging him along gently when he'd began falling behind. Why wasn't she worried about her own damn injury? It was bleeding pretty badly now, a nasty red glow surrounding it, yet she hadn't complained once.

He was spun suddenly and a firm hand pushed his shoulder down forcing him to sit. She'd lead him to the pie shop, which was still covered in flour and gritty as always, which Mrs. Lovett herself transported around London on her palms and in her hair. He'd meant to look up and scowl at the stupid women, but soon found that would be quite impossible as she seemed to have spontaneously vanished. Sweeney searched the room alarmed, wondering where the hell she'd disappeared too, leaving him alone when he could die from a head injury!

Had she finally found sense and run? But why now, why not straight away? Sweeney decided confusion was not his favourite emotion, and settled on not thinking anything at all, yet still subconsciously wondering if she'd come back. Not that he cared if she did or not, just it was rather rude too just leave like that. He grumbled to himself feeling it needed to be spoken aloud, as if someone had accused him otherwise.

"Right, love, this'll 'elp yer poor 'ead." And the voice was back. Dare say he missed it, what with it being still as shrill and dreadful as ever. However, Sweeney rose promptly on her return, shocking himself and Mrs. Lovett, who'd never such instant response from him in all her time as a human pie maker.

She handed him a rag, one which he scrunched his nose at. It was soaking wet and cold, dripping down his sleeve, making him shiver uncomfortably. He looked up at the Baker, utterly confused as to why she'd handed him a cold dirty wet rag.

Mrs. Lovett only stared down at him, a hand on one hip as if she was waiting for him to do something. What in Gods name was he supposed to do with this? Did she want him to clean? How was that supposed to help his head? Again, this women made no sense. Mad. Bonkers. Handing him rags for no good reason and telling him it'll fix his injuries.

Mr. Todd continued staring at the lump of fabric in his hand, brows drawn down in deep confusion. Mrs. Lovett let out an exasperated sign and once again met his befuddled stare.

"Gimme that, useless thing, can't even figure out a rag. Good fer coppin' an' nothin' more, you." The said item was suddenly snatched from his hands and pressed hard against the back of his head. He hissed when the cold touched his scalp, grabbing her wrists and trying to push her away. "Mr. T, you bloomin' nuisance, keep still, what yer doin' silly man!"

He was pinned down unexpectedly by a stronger weight than her mere grip. Sweeney received a face full of red curls as she plopped herself onto his lap, reaching behind him to press the rag back to his head. He tried to move away from the cold, but only got his face sharply tugged to one side and held firm.

Her petite frame was pressed against him completely as she leant over his shoulder dabbing his head. The cold had become more soothing against the throbbing, and he found her warmth nothing less than comforting. He refused to move, arms plastered to his side and body stiff against her relaxed one. It was quite surprising how easily she'd draped herself across him, making herself comfy with similar ease. Ok, what the hell was he was supposed to do now?

She was warm, very warm, a difference to his usual draughty parlour and the natural coolness of his own skin. The hand gripping his jaw burned against the coolness, her breath hot against his neck as she inspected his bump. He didn't like it, he didn't like how it made him even more confused, he didn't like how she cared for him so sweetly moments after near death courtesy of him.

The warmth was quite nice, but she still confused him, and as he'd concluded before Sweeney did not like being confused. He would award her a death glare if she wasn't pushing his face away. Instead, he reached for his razor, growling when he found nothing, remembering his treasure hurling through the air. Somewhere up there was a blade coated in a thin but precious layer of blood, the rubies where drying as time passed, and he twitched just thinking about it laying up there and being _wasted._

"Feel better love?" She asked him quietly, dropping her hand from his jaw and resting it against his chest, the other draped over his shoulder still holding the rag. His gaze rested on the gash in her neck, still deep in his fantasies which she'd assume where the usual dreary thoughts. Her question was forgotten as she'd asked it.

"Your neck." His drone voice replied.

Mrs. Lovett searched his face in confusion, "What 'bout it dearie?" She asked, despite knowing he was referring to the burning cut scolding her throat.

Sweeney squinted intensely at the wound, lifting a hand from his side to trail his finger tip across it slowly. His eyes snapped up to meet hers when she let out a gasp and winched. Fingers still rested against her neck, moving with each rise and fall of her heaving chest, he decided to try and lessen his confusion—the dreadful notion it was. Make some sense of her, prove she was the nothing he treated her as. There had to be something in her eyes, eyes where always perfect for telling ones emotions.

Lucy's eyes had been full of so many.

"It's... injured." Sweeney replied, searching her brown pools desperately for just the smallest clue. He leaned closer to get a deeper look, their noses inches apart as he clawed for a clue, a tiny God damn clue to what ran through her stupid, annoying mind. Suddenly her eyes fluttered shut, and she sighed.

Useless women! "No!" He growled, hand curling around her neck in frustration, he'd kill her, squeeze the breath out of her, then she'd be nothing, no mystery to solve. She gasped, clawing at his fingers with her own grubby ones and her eyes sprang back open. He relaxed, the range vanishing, moving his grip to her shoulder this time. He felt a sense of satisfaction when he saw the raw fear she felt, almost as rewarding as slitting a throat. That was soon replaced by the mystery emotion again when her eyes found his again.

Sweeney growled again, grabbing his hair as if that would cease his confusion.

"Mr. T?" Mrs. Lovett said in quiet concern. Always with the damn concern. He grabbed her shoulders again, shaking her violent before staring with such ferocious intensity that Mrs. Lovett began to feel the thud of her heart in her veins, the blush rising up her neck and creeping across her cheeks.

Sweeney couldn't miss _this_ , not when he was staring so intensely into the woman's face, and he wonders just where he'd seen such rosy cheeks before.

His Lucy always had a charming glow to her face, her eyes where so full of love. A swirling mist of love that sparkled in her sapphire eyes, he remembered it so vividly in that moment. Never had he remembered her that precisely, usually there where hazy visions filled with echos of a past life so loved.

...He could see that emotion so clear now, almost as if it was right in front of him. Swimming in molten pools of chocolate... His Lucy's eyes where not brown.

But Mrs. Lovett's were.

That's when Sweeney Todd recognised that hidden glint in her eyes, that's when he finally understood and that's when he concluded she really was a madwomen.

Maybe he was wrong, yet he'd never been so sure, and hence the reason why he stared jaw dropped at the women in front of him, his hands slipping off her shoulders in utter disbelief. Surely she couldn't love him? That would be foolish, truly and completely foolish to harbour such feelings for him. He couldn't love, he didn't love, not anymore.

The frantic beating of his heart was merely from the shock the crushing revelation had bestowed on him.

Sweeney swallowed, his throat suddenly painfully dry. He had to be sure, he was mistaken, he needed proof that this was a drastically wrong interpretation of Mrs. Lovett. It fit perfectly as to why she cared, her affection, her general attitude towards him— He _had_ to be wrong! No one was that foolish! He _couldn't_ love! He loved Lucy, he loves no one.

But the simple suggestion had managed to spiral into a million thoughts in his broken mind, and everything suddenly seemed so stupidly obvious, agonisingly real, horribly overwhelming. The emotion he felt at that moment was almost too much for the barber to handle. No one had ever loved him so selflessly, if she did, as the women before him did. Unrequited, she must know it had been. And the pain, how much pain can you inflict on yourself because of one, single, feeling? He was unlovable, an un-respectable gentleman in so many ways, he was heartless and rude and ruthless, yet she never batted an eye, she loved him just for the sake of... loving him.

"Mrs. Lovett." He spoke so quietly he wasn't sure she'd even heard it at first.

The Baker cocked her head in confusion, a feeling that was once mutual between them moments ago. "Mr. T?"

Sweeney reached up slowly to touch her cheeks, inspecting her eyes thoroughly once more before pulling her closer. Her pulse quickened beneath his touch and he was sure his own heart might rip through his chest any moment now. He licked his lips and took a breath before he pressed them gently to hers. For a brief moment, neither moved, Mr. Todd mostly because he hadn't shown affection for another human in 15 years and Mrs. Lovett in frozen disbelief. Then a hand grasped her hair and crushed her mouth into his with a desperate hunger, a new kind, gripping her waist almost as tightly as his razors.

She felt like she was in flames as he kissed her, _her_ , and the fire was licking her from the inside and out, she couldn't help but let every ounce of desire free. The chair creaked in protest beneath the frantic ghouls, clawing for each other so violently an onlooker would think they'd stumbled upon a fight to the death rather than a throw of passion.

If his simple touch drowned her before, this threw her against a rock and sucked the breath from her lungs. Her hands where now lost in the mass of his hair, his wrapped around her tightly, pressing her body further into him, and if they hadn't been she'd surely swoon into a weak heap. Maybe she'd drifted off into another fantasy again, a rather realistic one in that matter.

When they finally broke apart, he refused to look directly at her and she was limp and hazy with lust in his arms, draped across him like a white sheet. It was a strange thing to see, for they really did look like two grim phantoms in the night. An awkward minute passed before Sweeney rose, lifting her up gently by the waist—Oh _dear Lord_ save her— and placing her on the floor in front of him. Sweeney took a rather large step away from her, his eyes boring holes into the floor as he fought the rising heat in his cheeks.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Lovett struggled to regain her breath, a giddy and delirious grin slapped across her face, however did not attempt to press him. She let him do whatever he was doing, and didn't intend to ask questions later as she knew fair well she'd receive no answers. But that doesn't mean a women can't bask in the moment. It was extraordinary she could eve restrain herself from dragging him down to the floor in a lip locked frenzy.

An awkward, eerie silence filled the room, suffocating the life out of her, and sending his thoughts into a jumbled mess. Sweeney shuffled from one foot to the other; a creaking floorboard in a haunted house. He finally glanced up at her through hard eyes.

"Well, thank you Mrs. Lovett, i'll be on my way." He said smoothly, well, attempting to be smooth, but instead taking the big blue elephant in the room and gutting it. He flashed her barely a grin before ducking around her in a haste to get out. A part of him wondered if it would ever happen again. The other part of him wanted to kill her. She was the worst person he'd ever met, a villain... the most intriguing.

He paused in the doorway, mulling over his thoughts, strategically, obsessively. Like a killer. Then he strode towards her, swept her up, and kissed her once more, passionately and fiercely, stealing her breath. Maybe she would choke to death. Instead the baker sunk into his embrace, moaning in pleasure. Sweeney erupted into a inhuman growl. He pushed her away in disgust, eyes swimming in lust and hate and something else. She stared back, wide eyed, alive, electric.

He threw her to the floor violently, she hit it with a deafening thud, and he stormed away in a fit of fury.

Giggles bubbled from her chest, fingers carving out moons in her palms as pain prickled up her spine. Pain was her friend, her life. She wasn't bothered one bit. Beneath her corpses lay in gruesome shapes, above her a monster paced day and night, her own hands where far from clean. She thought about the beggar women.

The madwomen threw back her head and laughed.


End file.
